On the Subject of Love
by MaskedScissorDoll
Summary: Two men talk about certain illusions now past.  Occurs after the book/movie/musical in an AU sort of way.


Ah! The sheer joy of an evening spent alone in a somewhat seedy bar, watching someone other than Christine perform something other than a stellar piece of music.

It had been almost 2 years since the opera house debacle. And almost as long since Christine Daae disappeared. Well, she didn't really disappear. Her would be husband knew where she was. But she wanted to disappear, and to him, that was all that mattered.

He should have seen the signs. She wanted to love and be loved, that was obvious. But she didn't really want to be loved by someone like Raoul. She was interested in mystery and romance. She wasn't interested in predictable, dependable every day love. She was interested in sporadic, exciting, strange love. And so it was that she left Paris behind and went in search of something spicier. He heard she was doing quite well in Spain, practicing her craft. She and Alejandro were becoming quite popular.

Raoul wished her well. It wasn't her fault it didn't work out. Their common interests were largely childhood fantasies. He found opera rather dull, he had only patronized the Opera Populaire because his family had expected it of him. And hadn't they been pleased when he'd mentioned his engagement had been dissolved!

Although his heart was quite shattered, he went along with the notion that it was a fine idea, and a dramatic improvement of his situation. This did not entirely restore him in their eyes, he had, after all carried on with her for quite some time and quite publicly. His reputation, and by proxy, their own, had become quite tarnished.

And so it was that he found his conscience clear regarding his current location. He was enjoying a drink with the lower classes and watching a girl who was likely also for sale perform a song with dirty lyrics in, gasp, French. That is, after all, what young men with tarnished reputations did for fun, wasn't it?

And oh! What a relief to listen to a song with lyrics he could understand (if not sympathize with) performed in a crass, unmoving way. She was not Christine, but she was pretty, and that helped clear his mind.

But he could swear he was seeing shadows moving about the room. He knew something was odd in a familiar way. A familiar, disconcerting way.

"What is it exactly that you want, good sir? I know you're here, and I doubt you would come without reason," Raoul inquired, in a whisper that he knew his 'friend' could hear.

"So you aren't blind," a voice asked, too near to his ear for his comfort, and yet when he looked, there was only the darkness and the smoke that was the norm for such a place.

"Where are you, Ghost?" Raoul asked. He put his hand to his belt, and found his gun there. He let his hand rest on it.

"Does it really matter? You're certainly dressed quite well for an assembly such as this one," the darkness remarked.

Raoul felt somewhat threatened by this remark. "Am I overdressed in your eyes?"

"Are you a card carrying member of the Macaroni Club?" Quipped the voice.

That was it. Anger. Raoul stood, his hand still on his gun. The darkness of the establishment not only successfully concealed the true location of his enemy, but it also prevented the other patrons from becoming alarmed by his sudden movement.

"Did I strike a nerve, my friend? I certainly didn't come here looking for an unpleasant altercation. Quite the contrary. I came here to buy you a drink."

The sound of a coin's fast rotation as it arched through the air and the landed on the table caused Raoul to turn his head. And then there it was. A gold coin. "I can assure you sir, I don't need your money or your pity."

"I am sure you do not," the voice said. "I know all too much of the ill effects pity can bring. And I'm certainly aware of the thickness of your purse. However."

"Yes," Raoul said, "However."

"Why did she leave you?" the voice suddenly sounded as small as it had when Raoul had last heard it. On the day he let her go. Because of that kiss.

Raoul considered the strange gentleman for a moment. He knew the beast by name and by spirit, and he knew that Erik was a willful, capable man. He was strong. Inventive. And for reasons he could scarcely understand, he only had one true weakness. One that they shared.

"She left me," Raoul began, as though speaking to a child, "Because she did not love me."

"How could that be?" Erik's bewilderment and surprise was evident in his voice.

"I wasn't the sort of man she wanted to be with," Raoul said.

There was a quiet sigh. "I wanted to believe that love was real. I wanted to believe that the problem was only that she did not love me because I was repulsive. I wanted to believe that love existed for other people," the ghost said.

"Maybe love does exist," Raoul postulated, "But not for Christine. Not the kind of love we wanted."

"What a farce!" the shadows laughed. "We nearly killed each other, and for what? How many of thousands of women are there in Paris tonight? Maybe they aren't Christine, but am I mad for thinking better of them for it?"

And then Raoul laughed too. "I come here," he said, "to escape the very notion of a certain young singer."

"And with such success!" the voice was musical now, his concern vanished as quickly as it had come. "The young lady there, she isn't unpleasant to hear or to watch. She has a certain quality of frailty."

"I find her refreshing in a way," Raoul said, losing some of his humor. His eyes lingered on the girl for a moment. She was older than Christine, with short black hair and a slightly revealing corseted costume that could scarcely be called a dress. She was not the sort of person Raoul could love, but love isn't everything.

"I'm glad to see you've recovered so quickly, and in such a traditional foppish aristocrat way."

"Fop is a loaded word," Raoul said, far from being angry or even annoyed. The evening was catching up with him, and he was beginning to feel the effects of his drink.

"That it is," laughed the phantom, "but I wouldn't fear its trigger."

It was then that Raoul realized his hand had not moved from his gun. Despite the somewhat amiable nature of the conversation at hand, he was not at ease to the extreme that he would trust the hidden man. No, Raoul was only a fool for love.

"You must forgive me, sir," he said, "I'm afraid it is a habit I cannot break."

"In your place I would feel similarly. Regardless, I have discovered what I needed to know. At least some of the rumors are true. She is gone to Spain?"

"Yes," Raoul said, "She is performing with the famous Alejandro-"

"I know his name," the darkness said, "He is quite known in the right circles. He has performed at the Opera Populaire on occasion."

"Do you," Raoul began, having difficulty forming the question, "think he is skilled?"

"Terribly so. But quite pompous," the ghost reported. "And rude. He would be a better match for La Carlotta than our Christine, at least in character."

"Our Christine," Raoul felt the words with desolation.

"It is as it is," Erik said.

Raoul sat down again. "Yes," he said, "It is as it is."

"Look at us! Two fools waxing poetic about the past! Imagining her in a white dress on some hillside somewhere, thinking of her as a beautiful woman when she has ruined us both," Erik said, "Ruined us both irreparably. And there she is, on some stage much more prestigious than this one with a man more handsome than either of us, having the time of her life. Not that I was ever one that could be called handsome."

"How exactly," Raoul said, "did your face come to be as it is? I hope the question isn't rude."

"The usual way," the phantom said, and when Raoul seemed dissatisfied he said, "The devil poured acid on my face as I was being born. Or so I am told."

"Acid," Raoul said, blankly.

"Yes," the ghost said, "acid."

"I see," Raoul said, knowing he'd get no better answer than that. "What are your plans for the rest of the evening, Opera Ghost?"

"I shall retire early," Erik said, "The opera has become considerably less interesting of late, and I find myself fatigued of places like this. What about you, boy? Are you going to inquire after that young lady's virtue?"

"I may well," Raoul said. He had reached the point in his disillusionment that such things were no longer disgusting to him. Oh, no, they were becoming comforting notions.

And they were silent for the rest of her performance. In fact, Raoul was fairly certain that the ghost left disappointed in him, and in certain romantic notions he had about love in general. Good for him.


End file.
